


A is for Acronym

by nathanexplodeme (orphan_account)



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Abuse, Autism Spectrum, Body Dysphoria, Cunnilingus, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Sexual Content, Mildly Dubious Consent, One-Sided Attraction, Past Rape/Non-con, Pining, Post-Doomstar Requiem, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Doomstar Requiem, Recreational Drug Use, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Dysfunction, Sexual Harassment, Swearing, Trans Male Character, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-02-28 15:14:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2737340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/nathanexplodeme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nathan hasn't forgotten about that one time on the Dethsub, and Abigail kinda sorta wishes he would. Nathan's pining in the form of a non-linear acronym.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A is for "Abigail and myself are an item."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> coda s04e10

A well-meaning attempt at a romantic gesture from the mumbly-grumbly six-foot tall bundle of emotional constipation and sexual frustration Nathan Explosion went somewhat (read: _very_ ) wrong.

After enduring a night of stuffy small talk and forced smiles to crusty old white men who pretended to respect her as a professional, Abigail was not in the fucking mood for Nathan’s bullshit. Ever since their little cabin-fever induced tryst 20,000 leagues under the sea aboard the Dethsub, he hadn’t given her even an inch of breathing room. She never outright told Nathan she was 110% _not interested_ in pursuing a relationship with him, but usually the men in her life who tried to court her got the fucking clue after a couple days of the technological cold shoulder. However, Nathan was apparently “not like other guys” ( _ugh_ ) and refused to be quelled by her adamant snubbing. She should’ve figured out he was one of the persistent ones the week before during her cherished Sunday Baths, in which she checked all her emails, text messages, and voicemails from the week prior.

“You have six unheard messages,” the gentle prerecorded voice informed her. “First unheard message.” Abigail sat on the edge of her bathtub, twisting her hair up into a headscarf to protect her most recent blow-out from the hot, fragrant water. “’Hey uh, Abigail. It’s me. Nathan…Explosion. Nathan Explosion from Dethklok. I was just thinking about that time. You know. When I…put my mouth… _down there_ …and I—‘ message deleted,” the voice announced at the mortified press of Abigail’s finger. If it were any other person, she could be a mature adult about the situation, but something about Nathan Explosion mumbling about cunilingus reminded her a bit too much of her awkward and fumbling loss of virginity back in high school. Residual embarrassment and also the mental image of a teenaged Nathan struggling to unclasp her bra brought a smatter red to her cheeks. “Second unheard message. ‘Abigail! IdidsomepoppersandIwroteyouasongareyouready okay okay okay okay here it comes—‘” She threw her phone at the ceiling, only to regret it immediately when it submerged into the frothing bubble bath below.

Fuck that guy.

Back at the label dinner, Abigail was—gratefully— pulled out of a seriously dull conversation about horizontal merging or whatever with the men on either side of her when the clanging of a fork on a champagne flute rang out over the murmur of all the guests conversing. Her appreciation was abruptly retracted when she saw who caused the diversion. “I have a secret to, uh, reveal. I, uh, there's been a bit of an interoffice relationship going on, and, uh, Abigail and myself are an item. I just wanted to announce that. Thank you, everyone.”

 _Oh no he fucking did not_ , Abigail fumed. Without excusing herself, she gathered her purse and stomped off to the ladies’ room.

Seriously, _fuck that guy_.


	2. B is for Boner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> coda post-doomstar

“You know what Nathan? You’re like a fucking _wine mom_ or some shit!” Murderface jeered, downing a Coors. The whole band all sat submerged in their communal hot tub and got fucking _wasted_ , as was custom for a concert-less Friday night of palling around.

“Yeah sure, say what you want, but you’re the one drinking watery supermarket light beer.” Nathan swirled the bowl of the thin-necked glass. “What are you, poor _and_ on a diet?” Under the influence of a bottle of fancy-schmancy hundred-year old wine he had bought for a date that Abigail turned down, he couldn’t care less that he looked like a total pussy sipping Piedmont while the rest of the band knocked back beer after shitty beer, nor that his teeth were stained purple when he smirked at his own comeback.

“Hehe dood, look at yerself, yer fuckin’ _sniffing_ it and everythin’, like some fuckin’ stressed out housewife.” Pickles chuckled, clinking the neck of his beer to the curve of Nathan’s glass. “Well here’s to ya fer puttin’ up with us fuckin’ twerps, _mom_.”

“Hey Pickles,” Nathan smiled with faux-enthusiam, his face shiny and pink from a heady cocktail of alcohol, heat, and chronic horniness. “Fuck you too!”

“Ja, haves some mores sweets cheeks, am’ll help yous relax!” Skwisgaar slurred, his English abilities more than a bit impaired by booze and the hot tub (and maybe a bit of meth). With wavering hands, he tried to refill Nathan’s glass, but instead just poured a generous gulp on Toki’s shoulder when Nathan decided to hoist himself out of the bubbling water with the agility of a much more sober man. With a gooey brain and gooey muscles, jacking off and then passing out sounded pretty fucking good just then, and a sudden heaviness between his legs motivated him to stomp off with drunken vigor. Before the heavy iron doors of the living room thumped shut, he could hear that no one really noticed nor cared about his sudden exit amidst the excitement of a stoned Toki attempting to drown Skwigaar for his inability to aim.

Situated in a reclining position against a pile pillows, Nathan sighed as he pressed a warm, moist palm against the hot and heavy organ bobbing to meet the paunch of his lower stomach. He wished Abigail was there. If his attempt to wine and dine her was more successful than it had been (she sent him a text reading “no” for every text he sent asking her out to dinner, which was a total of twelve), it would’ve most definitely been her pawing at his junk instead of himself.

_Oh._

He thanked his alcohol-addled brain for the thought of her, and it sent an achy throb from the head of his cock and a resulting instinctual clench of his pelvic floor. If he couldn’t actually have her there, he could always just file her neatly into his spank bank.

She probably wouldn’t mind.

Nathan recalled how blown her pupils were and how desperate her hands were when their lips met. He growled about how breathless she sounded, with his head nestled at the apex of her thighs, that night under the sea. And—though he would never ever ever disclose to anyone, especially his bandmates—his eyelids fluttered at the fleeting memory of her taste. Holy shit, he craved it. With a low groan, he came at the tingling sensation of her hands, soft and supple, knotting the hair near his scalp and pulling— _hard_.

As Nathan, spent and content, nodded off, somewhere miles away in a lofty studio apartment, Abigail felt the overwhelming need to brush her teeth.


	3. I is for Interpersonal Communication

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no idea where this belongs on the timeline of canon aha sorry

“Don’t sweat it,” Abigail chuckled, petting his chest reassuringly. “This is far from the worst pillow talk I’ve had.”

Nathan was certainly no stranger to being at a loss for words, in the most literal sense. In the past, he’d overheard elementary school teachers talk in low, hushed voices about his own educational development, with confusing and conflicting psychological jargon being thrown around like any actually gave a fuck about his wellbeing. One phrase that happened to appear more often than the others, and even so in recent years when he happened to flip past medical talk shows while channel surfing, was “the autism spectrum,” which he apparently fell somewhere on. Saying his first word at the ripe age of five was a clear indicator, and so was his inability to form his thoughts into cohesive dialogue when he was overstimulated under pressure, whether it be giving a speech, taking a test, or—as the current situation presented itself—talking to the woman sprawled across your chest who you just had mind-blowing sex with the night before. The train of thought was relatively straight forward and easy enough to follow, but it was when the words reached his tongue that they liquefied and slipped right back down his throat. A direct result of these periods of mutism was the distinctive and easily replicated (read: _mocked_ ) Nathan Explosion voice: mumbling and grumbling, stalling and halting sentences. The dildos over at SNL had it down to a fucking science. The derision of speech patterns he couldn’t control and his indigenous Yaneemango features earned him the infamous nickname “Tanto.” In itself, a bit of a racist paradox, but also a go-to favorite for late night improv shows.

How was SNL not cancelled yet? He'd have to get Offdensen to do something about that.

“I…uh..that was. Hm.” Nathan held up a thumb and smiled.

“Yeah, it was for me too,” Abigail laughed, peppering his cheeks and jaw with kisses. She was always very intuitive about his wants and needs, as she was with everyone’s, which was a character trait that was almost necessary in her line of work. But with him, he felt, it was different. It was like her brainwaves aligned deftly with his own, and they were both thinking on a higher frequency. That kind of connection was always convenient when producing music, and it certainly didn’t hurt in sexual situations, either.

“God…you’re fucking…just…fuck,” he muttered, frustrated by his eloquence that he felt put a damper on the compliment. Nonetheless, if the rising temperature of her skin, rich and golden flush against him, was any indicator, it did not fall on deaf ears. She tucked a dense lock of hair behind his ear and tilted her head up so that she could feel his breathing on her lips.

“Let me know when you’re ready to go again.”

Just when he was getting some semblance of coherency back, the implications of her words knocked him back to square one.

“Yeah,” he said, before replying again with much more enthusiasm. Abigail shifted her weight over his body, so that she straddled Nathan’s hips. His hands roamed over her body, almost fucking phosphorescent in the morning light, and catalogued each fleshy bit—her breasts, her tummy, her love handles, her thighs. “Abigail…”

“Hey now, don’t force yourself,” she swiped a manicured thumb over his cheek. Molten eyes alight with mischief never left his as she snaked one hand down at the meeting of her thighs and the other to cup an ample breast.

“Show, don’t tell.”


	4. G is for Get over yourself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> had to shove my otp in there, sorry couldn't help myself. new tags added accordingly. beta'd by the amazing sessklok.

Huge hands carded through the mass of tightly matted dreads at the back of Pickles’ head, pausing every so often to pluck a single lock out and roll it between black painted fingertips. “Sorry Pickles…”

The smaller musician paused at the task at hand, or rather, mouth, and sighed heavily. “Nah, 's no big deal.” He gently tucked Nathan’s mostly flaccid penis back into his black silk boxers—he should’ve known something was off when he wasn’t free-balling—and readjusted his jeans. “Thanks,” he mumbled, retracting his hands from the other man’s hair.

Nathan really did mean it, Pickles had always been a thoughtful and mostly-sensitive guy, especially in sexual situations. He always went out of his way to prioritize his partner’s comfort and climax before his own, and his few and far between encounters with the larger man were no exception. Though all the tact in the world couldn’t lessen the coagulated mass of self-loathing and shame that began to gather, cold and creeping in his chest and throat.

Pickles wasn't stupid; he was going to put one and two together: they started fucking regularly around the same time Abigail was giving Nathan the cold shoulder, but as soon as she started warming up to the idea of them as an item, suddenly Nathan was either avoiding Pickles' advances entirely or leaving him high and dry. "Hey, uh, about that—" Nathan gestured to his crotch.

“Everybody's got problems gettin’ it up at some point,” Pickles said as nonchalantly as he could manage. “Doesn’t make ya any less of a dood just cuz ya can’t get yer dick hard.” A cigarette glowed from between the redhead’s lips as he took a long drag, and he offered the battered carton to Nathan.

“You’ve always had such shitty taste in cigarettes. Camels were only cool in the eighties,” he grumbled, with a ghost of a smile tugging at the currently down-turned corners of his lips.

Pickles’ eyes, swimming a bit from the smoke, lit up ever so subtly. “All a’ sudden ya kids are smokin’ this ‘Marlboro’ shit thinkin’ yer artsy or whatever. Douchebags.” The dark haired man chuckled at that and regarded the carton before handing it back to the drummer, who’d situated himself across from Nathan, sitting criss-cross near the foot of the bed.

“I shouldn’t, Abigail doesn’t like—“

“Okay.”

“—the smell of smoke. Uh, what was that?”

“Nothin’, I get it. The shit sticks to ya, whatever. Don’t let me be the one that stinks yer clothes up for her.” Pickles took one last inhale before making a point of stubbing out the cigarette on the black comforter beneath him with his pinky raised.

“Okay, I shouldn’t’ve brought her up, but you don’t gotta set my fucking bed on fire!” He swatted at the smoking hole left on the fabric. Pickles could be such a drama queen when he wanted to.

“Fuck you, and fuck yer bed,” Pickles snarled, his dreads bobbing like angry appendages as he flung curses at the man across from him. “You know what? Doesn’t matter.” Nathan could tell he was trying to look mad, but it was obvious that his friend was hiding rejection under the curled lip and flushed face. After all, they were friends for a long time before they started fucking around.

“No, don’t you dare pull that shit. I can tell it matters. You’re throwing a fucking passive aggressive temper tantrum like a fucking teenage girl. Man the fuck up.”

“Yer such a stupid fucking asshole, ya know that? She boned you once and doesn’t return yer calls or nuthin’, and ya still fuckin’ chase after her! When will you get it through yer fuckin’ lead skull that she’s not interested?! She likes yer dick but that’s fuckin’ it!”

“Oh, what, and that makes her any different than you?”

“You know that’s not fuckin’ true, you’ve always been the fuckin’ apple of my goddamn eye, an’ you fuckin’ use that against me! Who else would still fuckin’ touch yer fuckin’ floppy-ass dick after you said the wrong name three mother fucking times?! I’m tired of yer shit Nate’n! When are ya gonna learn that Abigail is too?”

“Listen, I don’t need this shit. If you don’t wanna keep doing…whatever this is that we’re doing, fine, I’m done. But don’t start saying shit about Abigail. She’s the first person I’ve ever felt this way about, and I don’t fucking need you trying to make me feel guilty for not wanting to fuck you anymore! I care about her Pickles, and I can’t keep fucking around with you, or groupies, or anyone for that matter, knowing that!”The room fell into silence, and Pickles’ face had settled into an emotionless mask.

“Oh. So that’s how it’s gonna be.” He got off the bed and walked towards the door, his legs betraying his calm façade.

“You better not start moping around,” Nathan replied, his eyes fixed to the ground. "That’s not gonna be good for the band.”

The drummer whipped his head around, one hand on the doorknob and his eyes dull. “Go fuck yerself Nate’n,” he jabbed a wavering finger in the direction of the other musician. “I will be as mopey as I damn well please, and fuck if you’ve ever considered what’s good fer the band.” The door all but slammed shut as he left the room, taking the palpable tension with him.

“And by the way,” a voice from behind the door muttered, “when ya finally figure out she wants nuthin’ to do with ya anymore, don’t fuckin’ crawl back to me lookin’ fer a quick fuck. Cuz I’m not gonna be there to give you one.”

 


	5. A is for Anytime, babe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> post-doomstar. another ship added. no regrets

“And so he says, 'Dick Knubbler? Guess you must be compensating for something.'” Abigail impaled an unsuspecting cherry tomato with her fork after rolling it around the plate for some time. 

“And then what happened?” she asked. The LED lights on Knubbler's prosthetics screwed into tiny pinpoints, glowing red. “Then I punched him in the fucking throat.” Abigail smiled around a mouthful of salad-no cheese, light dressing; she was trying to kick dairy to combat a steadily thickening waist as a result of recent bouts of frequent stress eating. “Atta, tiger!” she exclaimed, high-fiving the blond across the table. 

“That was, what, fourty years ago? Yeesh,” Knubbler polished off his wine, the woody acridity tickling his nose. “Not like anything's any better since. Can you believe I'm still getting denied for a mastectomy?!”

“That's bullshit, Dick! You've been waiting forever!”

“Tell me about it babe! Science can fucking fix my eyes but they won't take my tits! Buncha liberal fuckfaces,” he muttered, his gaze fixed down at the spoonful of minestrone at his lips. Abigail reached across to pat his arm reassuringly. It was still a touchy subject.

“I doubt the liberals have anything to do with it, sweetie.”

Abigail Rimeltindtdrinc and Dick Knubbler sat at a round table in a dim corner of Lacuna Coil, their favorite Italian restaurant. Despite how busy the two of them were following the events of Doomstar, with Abigail serving as Dethklok's new manager and Knubbler their engineer once again, they still always made time to enjoy a meal with one another.

Abigail wore her hair big and natural, and a cream-colored chiffon blouse. Knubbler's fingers itched to touch the material. The top two buttons were undone, revealing a sliver of decolletage, rising and falling with each breath, and the outline of a simple black bra. The blond felt his chest go tight; it was no wonder that the band couldn't keep their grabby hands off her, she was a goddamn dream. From their first meeting and subsequently his first advance, she wholeheartedly turned him down, to which he responded well, never pushing the issue or growing bitter. It became difficult to remain objective, however, when a situation similar to his yielded variant results- when a persistent Nathan finally wore down Abigail enough to warrant an on and off, informal relationship. 

Dick had heard the initial recordings of their more recent sessions aboard the Dethsub—there wasn't anyone at Crystal Mountain records who hadn't. If she didn't already resign from her engineering position out of mortification, the audio evidence of her and Nathan's sexual encounter would doubtless be used to fire her. Some douchebags at the record company—who felt threatened by her success far prior to the incident in question—argued in the break room over smelly microwavable pastas that it supported their claims that women were far too unpredictable to be in the industry. Admittedly, Knubbler thought to himself one night alone at the studio, about a week after the incident when he was supposed to be mixing for Planet Piss, bulky headphones over his ears and a hand between his legs, that anyone would succumb to the tension, buzzing and stagnant, on that sub. Between Abigail and Murderface, he honestly wouldn't be able to decide who'd he rather have hasty underwater orgasms with. Murderface? His hand had jumped up like his crotch was suddenly engulfed by flames, and he decided that he had been working too hard and needed a personal day.

"Jesus Christ, Knubbler, I get that your ocular enhancements let you look two different directions at once," Abigail sighed, "but you look like a goddamn chameleon and it's freaking me out. Stop."

“Sorry babe.” Deep in thought, he hadn't realized that his gaze became unfocused. “They're kinda hard to control sometimes.”

“Ugh, no don't apologize. I didn't mean to snap at you like that. I just had a pretty late night last night.”

Knubbler swirled his spoon in his soup, suddenly fixated on the chunks of tomato swimming in it. “Nathan keep you up?”

She crossing her arms over her chest. “Um, no actually. I up was filing some of Skwisgaar's paternity waivers. That boy really piles them up.” He could imagine; back when they were recording last, Knubbler could only get about three hours of guitar out of the Swede before he took his scheduled “blow job break,” which he claimed was obligatory and a federal crime if he did not receive it.

The waiter approached their table with two chicken parmesan entrees in tow. Both Knubbler and Abigail smiled politely and nodded until he left, and neither touched their food for a few tense moments.

“Why do you ask?”

Shit. The blond knew he shouldn't have brought it up. “I dunno, I just...aren't you guys a 'thing' now?”

“It's complicated, you know that.” Even the most emotionally apathetic members of Dethklok weren't blind to the strained communication between their manager and front man. 

But he was close to Abigail, and as a friend, he thought it would do more good than otherwise to press on. “Do you wanna talk about it.”

“It just hasn't been the same since that whole...” she grimaced around a mouthful of wine. “...fiasco went down.”

“The same how?”

The glass clattered to the table. “God damn it Dick, do I have to spell it out for you? Sexually. It hasn't been the same sexually.” A few concerned eyes from around the restaurant honed in on her, and she lowered her voice to a charged murmur. “Nathan still wants to do everything we used to do, and more often but...” Her eyes became misty and she took a pensive bite of pasta.

“...But you're never in the mood. Is that it?” 

“I feel so shitty. From the beginning, I told him that I wasn't interested in anything romantic, and that it we were involved, it would be strictly physical. He was okay with it, and I was okay with it, but now, I can't even give him that! And he's been so patient, but last Monday, he...he asked if he could start seeing other girls.”

“Listen to me. You were kidnapped, and tortured, and, well, everything that comes with that.” She shifted in her seat, covering her face with two dainty hands. “You have every right to be this way, Abigail. And if you don't want him messing around with anyone else until you feel better, then fucking tell him!”

“But that's the thing, I don't know if I'll ever feel better,” she whispered through her hands. “I take these pills everyday, and I see Dr. Twinkletits twice a week, but I can't shake the feeling that I'm still in that fucking pit.”

She felt his hands on the side of her face, warm and fleshy. “You're out of the pit, babe.”

“You think I don't know that? This really blows, Dick.”

Knubbler retracted his hands and tried to stifle his amusement. “Hehehehehe. Blows dick.”

Her hands fell away from her face. “Oh my god.” She lightly slapped his arm, giggles spilling from her, in contrast to the mascara that smeared down her cheeks, wet with tears. The two laughed, and the other patrons of the bar tried to ignore them, crying and laughing simultaneously without regard to anyone's reaction.

When it died down, Knubbler took one of her hands in his and looked into Abigail's eyes, big, brown, alive. “I know I'm not much for advice but, I'll always be here, whenever you wanna talk, or anything. Just call me.”

“Thanks for sticking around. I love you.”

Fuck. “Yeah, anytime babe. love you too.”

That night, neither brought up the subject of Nathan, or Doomstar, or their own relationship again. Despite how close they were, it was still too early to try and compartmentalize Abigail's trauma. And, perhaps, they would never really talk about it, and maybe she would never really get over it, but in those moments of wine-stained mouths and tenderness, of gossip and garlic breath, it was entirely a non-issue. And Dick Knubbler, broken in his own ways, was happy to see her forget, even if for just one night.

Much later in the evening, Abigail fell asleep alone in an empty bed, and yet, couldn't remember feeling more loved.


	6. I is for I want to be your rock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some pretty ugly stuff surfaces in the following. anyone who feels they may be compromised emotionally by this should take a look at the new tags added :^)

 

     "Hey, did you hear what I said?”

It wasn't as if Nathan never said the "L" word, in fact, he said it endearingly often—muttered under his breath to her on the phone when he thought the other guys were listening, groaned into the velveteen skin of her inner thighs, declared proudly and repeatedly during press releases—however, he made sure Abigail always knew when he did. Maybe it was his possessiveness over her, or his ego. Sometimes with Nathan Explosion, you could never really know.

Abigail opened her eyes. “What was that Nathan?” She smoothed her hands from her hairline back, moving the suds away from her face. Nathan used the detachable shower head to rinse her hair, fingers stalling where they were, buried deep in her curls. He always had quite a bit of a tactile fixation with hair, and her's certainly was no exception. Slyly, or so he thought, Nathan bent his head down to nuzzle the back of her head. Abigail smiled.

“I said...uh...” He trailed off, distracted suddenly by the curvature of her spine and the soft folds at her waist. His hands left her hair and followed the path his eyes left. “Well, I don't really wanna repeat myself.”

Abigail shivered despite the warm water. “Okay then. Be a dear and pass the loofah.”

“Loofah's a funny word,” he murmured in her ear.

“Sure is.” She rubbed herself down with the loofah, trying to ignore the fingers that crept closer and closer to her breasts, and laughed, “Someone's impatient today.”

“Mhmm...you're so hot.”

Ugh. Nice one, Nathan. After rinsing herself off, distracted by a rather nosy organ prodding at her ass, she shut off the water and turned around.

“Alright big boy, now that you're clean, we can get dirty.” Nathan closed his eyes and did a victorious fist pump in the air. “Just...remember what we talked about.”

He was already out of the spacious bathroom, eagerly toweling off. “Green light, yellow light, red light, got it. Let's dance, mama.”

* * *

      Abigail lay on her back with Nathan between her bent legs, touching each other everywhere and grinding their pelvises together like desperate teenagers. The latter seemed to be getting into it, panting and growling while sprinkling kisses hotly across her neck, while the former tried to focus on being intimate and the sensations elicited.

But despite her attempts to stay present, his hands felt too big, too hot, like there were too many of them, touching too much of her too fast. Her breath died in her throat.“Yellow light...” she croaked. In response, Nathan's ministrations slowed, as per their agreement, but did not stop. It was as if he was everywhere around her, his hair hanging on either side of her head were like blinders, and her vision became clouded. The paths his touch left itched and burned.“Relax,” a voice said, maybe his, definitely someone else's, reverberating against concrete walls, wet and dark... “The more you fight it,” the voice continued, rough and sinister, “the more I'm gonna make it hurt."

Abigail dug her nails into the flesh that hovered over her. “R-r-red light red light red light.” Nathan dismounted her, hesitant, but obviously troubled. The room settled and shifted into something more quiet and familiar, Nathan's bedroom. She moved against the sheets beneath her, trying to create some friction that would ground her to the time and place in which she really existed.

“Hey, are you okay? Oh, fuck, are you having one those things again?” His voice was too far away, it was underwater, it was an echo from years long past. “Everything was going so well...”

Abigail could feel someone's cold tears pool in her hollow collarbone that had long since filled out, she could hear Toki's whimpers and foreign pleas as if he were right there next to her. "Kan du drepe meg...vær så snill..."

She couldn't stop trembling. “Toki?” she cried, “Where's Toki?!”

“Uh...I don't know, probably with Skwisgaar or something?” Nathan's hands hovered awkwardly, unsure. “Just try to relax, Abigail.”

The glare she shot at him turned his blood cold. “Don't fucking tell me to relax.”

“Okay, I'm sorry, I don't know what to do!” he said defensively.

“Just, shhh. Everything's too loud right now. Please, I need Toki.”

“Right now? Can't you like, talk to him later? When we're not about to...y'know,” he trailed off.

If she weren't in the middle of a PTSD attack, Abigail'd be incredulous at his shortsightedness.“Not tonight, Nathan. Get me Toki.”

     

     Nathan lifted himself onto his knees, pensive. “Did I do something wrong?” The expression on his face made her heart ache—he really was trying to keep up.

“No, honey, you're fine, just...I'm not...not tonight.” She shut her eyes, blocking out both what was real and what wasn't.

The dark haired man dug through the bureau across the room, searching for his robe. “We showered first, I got you pillows, lube,” he turned back to Abigail, gesturing to his quickly deflating hard-on. “I'm even wearing a fucking condom! You know how much I hate condoms!”

“Please don't start. You know this is out of my control. Please.”

“I'm just saying I...I'm sorry”

His apology cut through the cacophony of sounds that replayed in her head—the clinking of chains, panting, wails...“Me too.”

“No, just listen for a second. I just want us to be okay again, but I feel like we're not making any progress.”

“Nathan...”

“I'm fucking serious! You're one of the best things to ever happen to me, and I don't want to lose you again! Please, tell me what I can do to make this better.”

“...I don't have an answer for you right now. I just need time.”

“Abigail, I love you. If you need time...I can wait. And I don't need to see anyone else. We can make this work.”

“Okay.”

Nathan leaned down to cover Abigail's hand with on of his, his expression pained and his brow furrowed. “Okay?”

“Yeah.”

     

     “I'll go see if I can find Toki. Uh, here. You should probably put something on before he gets here.” His effort to shut the door as quietly as possible did not go unappreciated by the woman, nude, on Nathan's bed. She pulled on one of his shirts, the jersey cotton welcoming against the cold sweat that beaded on her skin, and curled up against the headboard, her heaving chest calming as she inhaled the woodsy scent that clung to the black tee so often worn by the lead singer.

Later, Nathan sat in his aquarium basement, a bottle of Schnapps in hand, fuming at the thought of Toki in bed with the love of his life, comforting her in a way only he could. A wave of self-hatred bubbled up in response, and he flushed it back down with a fiery swig. 

 

  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is an alternate "i is for ____" chapter floating around somewhere that's much fluffier, but imo, nate/abi after the events of doomstar would be anything but fluffy. 
> 
> next chapter will be the last. thanks for sticking with me through all of these rocky updates.


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